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My poem is about my struggle in understanding and embracing my South Asian identity.

Poetry has allowed me to reclaim my ancestry and embrace my identity. In "Motherland," I re-imagined my paternal grandmother, with whom I, unfortunately, face a large cultural divide, as my country of origin. Formatted as a letter, I grapple with the concept of letting go of both a parent and a home.

Motherland

call me Mother
if You remember the Warmth of my grasp.
how meals used to taste, all Spice and steam
Gathered in a Home tooSmall for your tastes
but We made it brighter
Your smile brought the Universe in Our reaches

You grew
fueled by love and Spice OutofmyArms.
the moment You stepped into MyWorld
I knew you would leave me
for the monstrous azul of Sky&Sea&Far Away

but I still call you Daughter
for I am where you go when the streets grow teeth
But I have also
Taught You to be Strong
the Spice in your Blood
can turn into Flames

Oh Darling!has Sky&Sea&Far Away called you kin?
do You call her Mother?
do You still remember the taste of Home?
how the sticky Sweet syrup would cover Your Fingers
interlocked with Mine
my Hands wait for Yours
and the Table is set

For when you Return

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you'd like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we've set forth here.

Norah Rami is a teenage poet based in Houston Texas. She is a member of Houston's Youth Slam Poetry Team, ... Read more ›

I organize play dates for my children. They're friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can't find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It's fair to say, it's hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it's easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. "My Friend" asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn't end once we become adults.

My Friend

The turbulent sea of a ticking clock,
A constant chime of chores
Unfolded laundry, unpaid bills.
For unplanned surprises, Life's infinite stores

An achy neck, a heavy head,
A forever strong of burdens
Fleeting as they may be
Yet as real as my scribbling pens

In this world of lonely battles
Filled with competing souls
It's you, my friend
Your comforting words, long strolls

Your phone calls, your laughter,
You listening when I'm remiss,
Your steady support,
The source of all my bliss.

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you'd like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we've set forth here.

Mars D. Gill is the author of "House of Milk and Cheese" and "Letters from the Queen". She writes mainstream ... Read more ›

Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:

"Social media rots kids' brains."

"Social media is polarizing."

Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. "Her" personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing-much of what we hope to achieve isn't even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of "Her," strive for a reality that doesn't even exist.

Her

When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
"One Size Fits All" one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
"My body doesn't take away from the beauty of yours"
"We are all equal, we are all beautiful"
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
"You need to be me"
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
"Stressed"
"Depressed"
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn't pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn't perfect
Just lost at sea

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you'd like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we've set forth here.

Kashvi Ramani is a writer, actress, songwriter, and singer from Northern Virginia. She has been writing songs, poetry, scripts, and ... Read more ›

"After so Long" is a poetry film created for Simha's EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. "After so Long" was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. "After so Long" premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.

This film is a worldwide collaboration among trans and queer south-Asian artists from the United States, India and Canada. It was recorded, shot and filmed during the lockdown of 2020 and 2021.

After So Long (English Translation)

Jae:
Awake at 10 am but out of bed at noon,
I want to be here where I lose myself in these sheets
Glancing through half-shut eyes
At the gold pressing past my window
The glimmer remarks on the ledge of my bed
But the voices are so loud
Like dust collecting in the corner of my room
I am unaware to why I'm still here
With the chilling doubt of the breeze...
I'm swept into lucidity After so long

Dad:
Mil rahi hoon mein aaj iske saang barso baad,
(Today, I'll be meeting them after so long)
Koi paata nahi diya tune
(But with no destination sight,)
Kya karu?
(What should I do?)
Kaha jau?
(Where should I go?)
Shayad agar mein chalne lagoon,
(Perhaps, if I keep walking)
Inn yaadon ki safar mein
(Down this road of memories)
Mujhe samajh mein ayega,
(I will find out)
Yeh rasta kahaan jayega,
(Where this road leads)
Inn aari tedhi pakadandiyon pe baarte hi jaana hai,
(Through the twists and turns of this winding roads, I must keep going on)
Mujhe mil na hain aaj uske saath,
(I wish to meet them today)
Barso baad.
(After so long)

Simha:
I feel like I'm retracing my footsteps
From these concrete stretches
To broken cement walls
Chips and cracks forge their way for new designs
I see the old abandoned buildings
That once held the warmth of bodies
Now just hold memories
Supporting the nature's resilience
In vines and moss
After so long

Mom:
Dhoondli shishe mein jaaga leli hai
(These isty mirrors have offered refuge)
Bikhri hui laatao ne,
(To these scattered vines)
Zameen pe uchi ghaas pe
(Amidst the tall grass stretching from the ground)
Lehrati kamsan kaliyaa
(The swaying little buds)
Bheeni bheeni khushboo bikhereti
(Spreading honeysuckle scent through the air)
Phir wahi mausam,
(I lose myself in reminiscing, the same season)
Wahi dil,
(The same heart)
Baarso baad.
(After so long)
Phir bhi mein chal rahi hoon aaj
(Still, I keep carrying on today)
Khudko khudse milane ke liye
(In the pursuit of my higher self)
Inn galiyo se guzarna hain aaj
(I must pass through these streets today)
Chaalte chaale jaana hai aaj
(I must keep going on today)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor paar
(Someday, we'll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor pe
(Someday, we'll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)

Credits

Poem by Simha & Jae
Produced by Star Hopper Studios
Directed by Varsha Panikar
Cinematography and grading by Tanmay Chowdhary
Editing by Asawari Jagushte
Featuring Vaishakh Sudhakaran
Music Production by Simha
Hindi editing by Rama Garimella
Recited by Simha, Rama Garimella, Annaji Garimella
English Translation by Nhylar

The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you'd like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we've set forth here.

Varsha Panikar (they/he) is a filmmaker, writer and multi-disciplinary artist from India. They are the co-founder of Star Hopper, a ... Read more ›

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In "Motherland," I re-imagined my paternal grandmother, with whom I, unfortunately, face a large cultural divide, as my country of origin.

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4 Poems to Help You Navigate Your Identity

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Milena Maceira on the intimate struggles of a third culture kid

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Stories on Identity, Culture, and Intersectionality

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Stories on Identity, Culture, and Intersectionality

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7 stories by young writers about identity, culture and intersectionality - Lacuna Magazine

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In these empowering stories, seven young writers focus on class, colourism, being caught between cultures, being neurodivergent - and how they overcome the feeling of being an outsider.

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As I write this, it's the 15th of September, Independence Day for the people of El Salvador, officially marking 200 years since the small Central American country broke away from Spanish rule in 1821. I'm a 21-year-old Latin-American born and raised in Illinois, to two Salvadoran immigrants who came to the United States in hopes of escaping their home country which was still on a years-long path to recovery from a brutal civil war that tore the nation and its people apart. My father was from a family of two parents and 13 children, living on a farm, tending to livestock, selling goods to the local markets. My mother was an orphan raised by her grandparents in a small house from which she was not often allowed out. Growing up, I never felt too terribly close to my Salvadoran heritage. Most of the Hispanic kids I knew were Mexican, and the way that many of them seemed so proud of their culture and heritage seemed almost foreign to me.

My parents wouldn't tell me too much about what it was like growing up in El Salvador, other than it being rife with dangerous gangs and violence even after the war had ended. Neither of them seemed too terribly proud of their country, and it had the effect of making me feel rather detached from it as well. I had never seen it, after all, and what little I had heard only served to further convince me that I should have been very glad to be born in the United States and not know a place such as my parents described. I'm fluent in Spanish, as that's what I grew up speaking at home, yet throughout my life, I've been ribbed by other Hispanic people for having a gringo accent when I spoke, making me feel just that much more alienated from my heritage. I always lamented the lack of connection that I felt to my roots, and this feeling persisted until I was 18 years old, when I went on my first trip abroad.

My father and I went to El Salvador, and what I remember the most was how it seemed like a whole different world to the both of us. Though he had grown up there, my father had not been in the country since before I was born. I remember him telling me: "When I was your age, living here, if you had a car, you were like a celebrity. And now, there's traffic!" By that point, gang violence had gone down significantly in the country as well. Though what captured me the most were the things that my father said hadn't changed. Countless people were still getting up early in the morning and going to the markets, children were selling fruits and nuts on the side of the street to help their families make enough money to get them through the day, and above all else: practically everybody greeted each other on the street and wished others a good morning. There was a type of togetherness there that I'd never really gotten to experience before. I even saw a different, less stern and more charitable side of my father as he struck up friendly conversation with strangers and bought from the children selling fruits on the streetside. My father had grown up doing the same thing, in an El Salvador that was in a far rougher shape than the one in which we found ourselves. I saw the house that my mother grew up in, a small house with an aluminum roof next to a Texaco gas station. There was something about seeing these places that my parents grew up in that humbled me, and moved me greatly. I had never had a deeper compassion and understanding for my parents' upbringing before then.

Recently, I had a conversation with a friend's father, who described a brother of my friend's as being too "Americanized", and with little respect for his heritage. I shared my experience with him, and we agreed that the best way to gain a true appreciation for one's roots, is to visit them. Never before had I been so proud to be a Salvadoran-American as when I'd come back from that trip, skin extra-tanned from the sweltering sun, a belly that had had more than its fair share of pupusas, and for once happy to be back in the Midwestern winter. But I'd brought back something that was better than any souvenir: I'd brought with me a sense of cultural identity that was previously missing. I wasn't just Latino, I was Salvadoreño. I've only revisited once since then, but I hope to again as soon as I can. Everyone has a cultural identity, whether they feel very connected to it or not, but I would urge anybody to find their people, to visit the places of their parents' or grandparents' past and see through their eyes, if only briefly. Own your heritage, embrace the cultures around you, say "Hello!" and "Good morning!" to strangers on the street. That is the food of the soul, and with a good change in perspective comes a good change in attitude.

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On Realizing My Cultural Identity - Story Jam

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Seeing the places my parents grew up humbled and moved me. I brought back a sense of cultural identity I was missing. I wasn't just Latino, I was Salvadoreño.

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(Art credit: @niabydesign)

Michael grew up in a family that is both Filipino and Japanese - in addition to the challenge of finding his way as Asian American, he struggled to fit in with either side of his family as a mixed-Asian person. This is the story of how he embraced his dual identity with the help of loved ones and two Asian saints.
A friend recently asked me, "Michael, how do you navigate your identity as a mixed-Asian, Asian American?"

No one has bothered to ever ask me this before, and I was thankful to have the space to talk about my experience. My friend is mixed-Asian herself, so she might have been thinking about the interaction of these identities already.

When I say I am mixed-Asian, I mean I am both ethnically Filipino and Japanese. My mom's side is Filipino and introduced me to the wonders of TFC (The Filipino Channel), good Filipino food, being family-oriented, and Catholicism. My dad's side is Japanese, and they taught me the importance of a strong work ethic, the concept of individual and familial honor, and self-discipline (even if I still struggle with that!).

Growing up as an Asian American in general meant there was a lack of meaningful representation in the mainstream media. Seeing Asians on TV or in movies was rare; if we were present at all, Asians were often reserved for minor roles or stereotypical characterizations. I wanted to embrace my Asian heritage, but I did not know how - I didn't have models to see how to be both proudly American and Asian.

While I have mentioned what I gratefully inherited from both sides of my family, there was a lot that was lost through assimilating into American culture. I speak neither language, I am unfamiliar with the history of my homelands, and I know little to nothing about cultural wear. And while these things do not, in themselves, constitute what it means to be part of an ethnic group, this loss was a stumbling block for me in navigating my identity.

Asian Americans, until relatively recently, were often an invisible minority kept out of the media and from discussions in American culture. Being mixed-Asian for me meant feeling there was an additional shroud of invisibility on top of that. I was out of place: "too-Asian" to be, in many cases, an American - and because of my mixed heritage, I often felt out of place even within my own Asian American community. I was hidden and lacked language and examples to identify and express this feeling.

To complicate matters, I do not appear Filipino to most people, even though I was raised with more Filipino cultural norms. It's not that I was ever bullied or excluded, but I often did not understand or feel like I could belong to groups that were predominantly composed of fully Filipino people. I desperately wanted to fit in, but felt my physical features and mixed background got in the way. Despite me and many of my friends and family being Filipino, I dreaded the way we were profiled and treated differently on account of our different skin complexions.

There's difficulty, even now, trying to put into words the feelings I have about my own heritage, to demonstrate the ups and downs that come with embracing it. I often feel I am frantically trying to scramble for all that I can grasp with the hope that I'll be able to pass on something more tangible to the next generation of my family.

Still, there have been many positives from this journey, and I imagine many more to come. In middle school, I began to explore what it meant to be Asian: I remember first learning about Japanese internment in the United States and discovering that my own ancestors were among those interned. I was motivated to preserve our culture and learn more about my heritage in honor of them.

I found out my family history on my Japanese side is complicated. My great-great-grandparents were immigrants from Japan, and my great-grandma was born here in the United States. Following internment, my family went back to Japan, where my grandma was born, only to later return to the United States, where my dad was born. My Japanese heritage is marked by this transnational tradition and lost more through Americanization than with my Filipino side.

While I inherited the values instilled by my Japanese side, I often struggle to find ways to express my joy in being a Japanese person. When I would try to learn more about Japanese culture, often it felt as if I was wearing a costume - I felt like I was learning about a culture that was not truly mine.

For a long time, I thought that rejecting Catholicism was necessary to reclaim a truly Filipino heritage. I wanted to sift through the hundred years of colonialism and occupation of the Philippines to reclaim who I thought I ought to be as a Filipino person. Only later did I realize that my identity as a Filipino was shaped by these events. To try and revert to some "pure" pre-colonial Filipino identity was not only an impossible task, but in some ways would mean completely disregarding what was handed on to me in exchange for something that was not.

Growing into this identity meant a constant back and forth of learning and unlearning, and I came to befriend two holy men from our tradition who helped me find my way: Blessed Justo Takayama Ukon and St. Lorenzo Ruiz. Both of these men have incredible stories, but what resonated most deeply was a new concept they embodied: cultural fusion.

Blessed Justo Takayama Ukon was a Japanese samurai who fled persecution by Japanese authorities and died as a martyr in Manila. St. Lorezno Ruiz was a married lay Catholic man who had to flee the Philippines after being wrongly accused of murder. He died a martyr in Okinawa, Japan. Their stories to me revealed how I am not simply Filipino and Japanese - I am Filipino-Japanese. I am not both separately, but both together in one.

For years, I spent so much time aiming for cultural preservation that I rejected the possibility of cultural fusion, a blending of the best of both of my heritages in something entirely new. #BeingAsian is not simple, and it's a process I am still navigating. But if I have learned anything, it is that we can only uncover our deepest identity by learning from the lives of others and finding support from our community, family, and friends. I have learned more in this last year from my family than I ever did researching online and attempting this process on my own.

Reclaiming and embracing our identities starts with inheriting all that is being handed on from those who have gone before us.

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Discovering My Cultural Identity as a Filipino-Japanese-American

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Michael grew up in a family that is both Filipino & Japanese - he struggled to fit in with either side of his family as a mixed-Asian person.

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Within the Soul Stories, we witness the struggles and triumphs that have shaped us. We find solace and strength in hearing our battles echo through the voices of other women. Through this collective exchange, we discover newfound resilience, unwavering solidarity, and an unparalleled capacity for empathy.

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Identity Poems - Best Poems For Identity

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Identity poems by famous poets and best identity poems to feel good. Best identity poems ever written. Read all poems about identity from aroun the world.

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Castle was assigned an article by the London Review of Books about an exhibition on Madame Pompadour and Seventeenth Century French court life. She turned this vastly too long piece, which has nothing to do with that subject, many years after her deadline. The essay is absurdly long and details how Castle's life is more of less upended by her inexplicable obsession with an obscure biography about a jazz musician named Art Pepper who lived a colorful (often extremely obscene) felonious and debauched life.

First line: Writing this in San Francisco, having just come back from San Diego and a heroin Christmas at my mother's.

A relatively short essay, in which the first third focuses a situation where Kreider was cc'd on an email disparaging him; the last two-thirds of the essay ruminates on the larger subject of knowing or not knowing what people actually think about you. I admire how he demonstrates the power of curiosity and a compelling train of thought. He has Interesting things to say about, "Do you want to know what people think about you? If so, why? If not, why not?"

First line: Recently I received an e-mail that wasn't meant for me, but was about me.

This essay appeared in Best American Essays 2022 after being published in The Yale Review., and showcases the best of Febos, in that it is intensely corporeal. Febos's personal essay has a very clear subject-her body and her relationship with her body. Moving, interesting, and wonderfully digressive.

First line: My mother had raised me vegetarian, and though I harbored no real desire to eat meat, sometimes, in summer, I would take a hunk of watermelon to a remote corner of our yard and pretend it was a fresh carcass.

7. John Jeremiah Sullivan: "Mister Lytle "

Possibly my favorite example of one of my favorite forms of personal essay, what I call a "portrait essay." In this piece, Sullivan tells of a time he spent living with a beloved old writer in the South. A very heterosexual Sullivan worked for the writer, who we eventually discover was smitten with his young lodger/employee. It's a beautifully written essay and you get a delicious dramatic arc of a relationship between two people.

First line: When I was twenty years old, I became a kind of apprentice to a man named Andrew Lytle, whom pretty much no one apart from his negligibly less ancient sister, Polly, had addressed except as Mister Lytle in at least a decade.

8. Sarah Manguso: ""

This 750-word personal essay is an intense depiction of Manguso's college experience of nearly dying from a rare blood disease. Manguso worried death would certainly happen if she didn't have sex with more than one person in her life. At last, one of her "legendarily promiscuous" friends agreed to have sex with her-and she recovered. Surprisingly heartbreaking, also funny, this essay is notable for the fact that 50% of it is devoted to a detailed description of the medical procedures used to treat her illness.

First line: For a year I worried that I might die having had sexual intercourse with only one person.

Baldwin was, I suspect, the smartest writer of the 20th Century, and this essay shows his roving mind at its best. Ostensibly about a period of time when Baldwin was in his late teen years, and his father's dying, but also about living under Jim Crow, and later in life when he lived in a still segregated New Jersey. A true train of thought essay, the performance is less in terms of story, as digressions expand and probe in different directions. This is the kind of piece I'm reluctant to use with students, as it's impossible to emulate.

First line: On the 29th of July, in 1943, my father died.

This comic personal essay has a pretty great turn in the second half. Sedaris is in a shop of curiosities and oddities, trying to buy a taxidermied owl for his husband, Hugh. The shop owner instinctually sees deep into Sedaris's morbid soul and offers a surprising object to show him. And makes him touch it.

: Does there come a day in every man's life when he looks around and says to himself, "I've got to weed out some of these owls"?

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My favorite personal essays showcase a vivid personality and clear mind or perception of the world. I find these qualities more engaging than really amazing material. There are good essays focusing on horrifying or remarkable stories-a hitchhiker who survives an encounter with a serial killer target